


An Exception for Someone Special

by spookywoods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cottage Pie Lovers Anonymous, F/M, Freedom of the Press (to be jerks), HPCupMiniFest, Not Epilogue Compliant, Press Conferences, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Reporter Blaise Zabini, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 02:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: The one where Ginny wins the Quaffle d’Or for a second time and is subjected to yet another press conference, only to be pleasantly surprised by a certainDaily Prophetcorrespondent’s charm.





	An Exception for Someone Special

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for ROUND 3 of the HP World Cup Mini Fest using the prompts uniform, equipment, and coach. 
> 
>  
> 
> I would like to give a big shout out to [Estrella](http://hogwartsfirebolt.tumblr.com) for the inspiration to write a Blinny fic. I would also like to give tons of praise and thanks to [Christina](http://drarrytingz.tumblr.com) for being a last minute, incredible beta! Thank you!

“I won’t do it.” Ginny crossed her arms and stuck her chin out. It might’ve looked petulant, but she didn’t care. 

Coach Tramerelle shook his head, laughing in disbelief. “You’ve just won the bloody Quaffle d’Or, Weasley. You’ve got to talk to the press.” 

Ginny narrowed her eyes and frowned. 

“Even if I wanted to let you out of it,” Coach continued, “It’s in your contract that you have to go.” 

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy the attention, or the praise, or the baskets of gifts, or the articles across all the glam rags that would start triumphantly declaring “ _GINGERS DO IT BETTER_ ”  once again. But it wouldn’t last. The first time she’d won Quidditch’s most prestigious award, they’d eventually turned on her. 

And, yeah, okay, admittedly, she’d lost her nerve.  

“Gingers do it _best_ ,” she’d shouted to the slew of paparazzi outside her brothers’ joke shop. So they’d written her off as arrogant, entitled, jaded from being Harry Potter’s ex-girlfriend, a brat who was endlessly dependent on nepotism. Fancy that! A Weasley! Cashing in favors? She laughed about it constantly. 

Even if they ignored the six world records she’d broken, they couldn’t deny that Ginny had been the youngest chaser ever selected to play for the Holyhead Harpies in an international exhibition match. And though it had been a fluke of misfortune—illness struck one of her chaser teammates—her performance ended up cementing her role with the team.  

This season, the press had been on a roll. Noelle Dickinson at the  _ Daily Prophet _ had accused Ginny of wearing special protection during games to withstand collisions with Bludgers. Then Martin Farros of  _ Snitches Daily _ went even further, positing that her uniform was charmed simply because it didn’t “look right” on her body. 

So, okay...in fairness, she hadn’t handled that well either. 

Everyone had told her to ignore them. “Focus on the game today, it’s a big one,” Coach had said the day after the article. And well, they won. But in the end, the Harpies had ended up giving out quite a few complimentary tickets to spectators. Because when the final whistle blew, Ginny Weasley flew over to the press box and stripped down to her under clothes, throwing pieces of her uniform at the wide-eyed, open-mouthed reporters. 

She’d landed in the box and started shrieking at them, pointing to her bruised skin, both the yellow of the older Bludger hits and the swelling purple of the day’s new ones. When Farros had had the audacity to ask her for a comment, she’d whacked him over the head with her Firebolt and stormed off.

So, she really didn’t have a good relationship with the press, as it turned out. 

And as if sensing her line of thinking, Coach Tramerelle said, “You’ll be able to pick the outlets and correspondents.” At the immediate gleam in her eye, he quickly added, “Within reason.” 

-/-

The next day, Ginny arrived almost thirty minutes late to the training facility and was subsequently rushed through hair and makeup. Which was fine, because she didn’t want to deal with the fuss of it anyway. The press didn’t deserve half the effort everyone spent trying to dazzle them. 

Coach Tramerelle met her in the hall outside the press room, a worried wrinkle in his brow. 

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a mild smile. They both knew that was a half-truth. She would be fine. Even if she lost her temper, barring any serious injuries to anyone else, Ginny would skate away from the situation without so much as a warning from the team.  She was beloved at the Harpies for more than just her winning ways and team spirit; she also brought in a lot of money. At the end of the day, she could do pretty much whatever she wanted. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Coach finally said. 

They made their way into the conference room. At the front, the platform with their table and chairs rose a few feet above the floor, overlooking the large audience of reporters. Ginny recognized most of them. She knew a few of the good ones by name, people who wrote about Quidditch facts and figures and stayed away from the gossip. The faces she didn’t know, she assumed were newbies sent in place of the dodgy assholes she’d banned from attendance. 

And then there was a face she hadn’t expected to see ever again. As she and Coach Tramerelle took their places at the the table, her eyes fixed upon the long, handsome features of Blaise Zabini, before her gaze traveled down his form to the— 

“Hang on,” she whispered to Coach. She nodded in Zabini’s direction and stared at the collection of lanyards around his neck. From what she could tell, they obstructed the view of a very fashionable set of robes. “Why’s he here and what’s with all the press passes?” 

Coach Tramerelle snorted. “You’ve gone and banned nearly every sports reporter, Weasley. The outlets had to send someone you hadn’t traumatized or put on your hit list.” 

“Or, you know,” she said as her eyes trailed back over the rest of room’s occupants, “they could hire  _ actual _ journalists with integrity who write the news.” 

“You sure ask for a lot,” he replied. 

The press conference started a few moments later when their PR liaison stepped up to the platform. Ginny tuned out most of what she said, choosing instead to stare off at the back wall. She knew part of the reason she antagonised them was that annoying feeling that there was always a battle to be fought on some front. Maybe it was some hold over from the war, but mostly she just wanted them to leave her alone. She was there to play Quidditch, not spill her soul, and certainly not to put up with attacks on her appearance or her character. 

Ginny vaguely registered Coach answering a few questions, but shook herself when he turned and nudged her in the side. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” she looked up. 

Anthony Demeter from  _ Quidditch Watch _ stood and smiled. “Congratulations, Ginevra. After a few years of winning seasons and now your second Quaffle d’Or, what do you think is the secret to your success?” 

She tried not to roll her eyes. She’d known this was coming—questions with obvious and remarkably boring answers. “The biggest key to my success is my team,” she started. The rest of it rolled off of her tongue in nice little phrases and soundbites for the wireless specials.  _ I never stop training,  _ she repeated.  _ Thinking about formations all the time _ , she elaborated.  _ Never underestimating those on the opposition _ , she finished. The words seemed to always fulfill their expectations. 

After another round of questions about the dynamic of the team, the PR liaison called on Zabini. He stood gracefully, towering over those around him. “Yes, hello. Blaise Zabini, economic correspondent for the  _ Daily Prophet, _ ” he said. His deep eyes fixed on her. She took a sip from the glass of water in front of her. “How do you feel about the sudden rise in the Goblin minimum wage?”

Choking on her water, she wiped the excess from her lips. “I’m sorry?” 

Zabini’s face lit up with barely subdued delight. “The increase in the Goblin minimum wage—I wanted to know your thoughts on it.” 

Ginny’s lips parted in surprise. Never in her six years as a professional athlete had she ever gotten a question like that. She’d actually just spoken to Ron about the new accounts at Gringotts for her personal, business, and charitable ventures, but the increase barely affected her pursuits. 

She cleared her throat and tried to form a coherent answer. “I fully support the progressive changes being made to better the lives of magical races and creatures all across Britain.” She licked her lower lip and nodded her head, adding, “The new implementations have a negligible effect on the rest of us. It’s about bloody time we started treating the ones who handle our shit with the respect they deserve.” 

Ginny expected a glare from the former Slytherin in response. But to her surprise, Blaise scribbled away on his parchment with a genuine smile plastered across his face. 

“Thank you,” he finally said, and sat down. 

She didn’t have time to dwell on the encounter, as the rotund, bowler hat-wearing Blighton Rosethorn stood and asked, “Are there any issues arising in the squad since you’ve stolen the spotlight?” 

Ginny frowned. 

“How does the team feel about your awards?” 

She rolled her eyes and clenched her jaw. Luckily, Coach Tramerelle rushed to answer first, allowing her time to dial back her raging desire to incinerate the man’s ridiculous hat. 

Four questions later and she’d just about switched back to her automatic answers. After explaining her training routine to Samir Malek of  _ Scitus Fitness _ Magazine, the PR liaison once again acknowledged the raised hand of Blaise Zabini. 

With a nod, he started, “Blaise Zabini for  _ Wizard’s Government Weekly _ .” 

Ginny couldn’t help but raise a brow. Her eyes fell to the collection of press passes around his neck and suddenly she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. 

“What is your take on the current lawsuit against Bertie Bott’s, and have you ever encountered an Every Flavor Bean of a chemical, sexual, or bodily flavor?”

Ginny snorted. 

After a moment’s pause, Zabini raised his brows, indicating he did in fact expect an answer.

  
“I—” Ginny searched for a way to answer the question and still keep some of her dignity intact. Hadn’t everyone had the displeasure of tasting some of the vilest flavors? “I’m actually not supposed to talk about candy brands. Not since my brothers started a line of similar products at their shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade.”  

“Yes,” Zabini nodded, “I’m aware of the conflict of interest. Were you aware that a—” he glanced at the notes on his parchment. “—a Percius Wasselsnatcher was listed as one of the many plaintiffs in the case? He’s a distant relative of yours.” 

She couldn’t hide her amusement, so she turned her head, letting her hair fall into her eyes. Percius Wasselsnatcher was the employee name George put on all Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes international orders. “It’s like I said,” she felt herself flush with delight. “I can’t comment on the matter.”

Zabini pursed his full lips as if trying to hold back a smile. Their eyes met, and as he took his seat again, Ginny could’ve sworn he’d winked at her. But then the next question came, and she found her attention stolen as she was forced to explain her latest sponsorship deal with Firebolt. 

“Did they take a liking to you using their product as a weapon?” the new reporter added after Ginny finished her answer. 

“I’m sorry, what?” She put her palms on the table, ready to stand and show him a piece of her mind. She wasn’t necessarily raging yet, just upset some asshole had ruined what was turning out to be a mildly enjoyable press conference. 

“And look, another question,” the liaison pointed to Zabini. 

Ginny’s eyes shot over to him as he stood. The sight of him glaring at the other reporter seemed to ice her fury until it only was only a mild, nagging annoyance poking through her thoughts. Her eyes followed Zabini’s hand as he brushed it over his short hair, and then he sent her a soothing smile. 

“Blaise Zabini again, for the  _ Standard Magical Family Quarterly _ .” 

Ginny relaxed her arms and put her hands back in her lap. She didn’t want to admit she was eagerly anticipating every word from Zabini’s lips. 

“When does the Children’s Sunday League you sponsor begin match play, and what can you tell us about the monetary and safety modifications you’ve instituted in Young Britain's Premier Quidditch League?”  

She had to pinch herself to quell her astonishment. Ron had set up her charity to be almost completely anonymous. Looking at Zabini, she found it hard to gather any sort of answer. 

He gave her a discerning stare and then checked something in his notes. “The uh—let’s see—Marshalbog Matligs? Set to play in the coming weeks?” 

“Oh,” Ginny blinked. She realized she had to actually say something. Zabini must’ve researched quite a bit before coming to the press conference if he knew about both the Matligs and Percius Wasselsnatcher. “Right, yes. The under twelves are a great group of children, and we try to help those who don’t have access to equipment, or other children to play with. We offer experienced supervision and age-appropriate training. Their first game is the third of August.” 

“And the changes in the youth league?” Zabini asked. 

Spending months trying to get her voice heard in the chaos of Young Britain's Premier Quidditch League had nearly given Ginny a nervous breakdown. The league had operated with very little regulation, allowing each individual team to dictate their own specific guidelines. This led to certain teams and players having absurd advantages over others. Ginny grew up in that league after watching her brothers try and fail miserably to get on any of the teams. 

“I organized a group of parents and community leaders to sit down and dictate a standard set of league rules that every team has to follow,” she managed to say without letting too many of her personal opinions or experiences bleed out. “It’s about fair play and giving every child who wants to participate a chance.” 

“Can you elaborate on that?” Zabini smiled. 

“I’m sorry, but we have more questions,” the liaison interrupted. She called on someone else, but Ginny tuned them out as the reporter addressed Coach Tramerelle. 

Gin couldn’t pry her eyes from Zabini’s face as he focused on scribbling more notes down on his parchment. He lifted his quill to his mouth and chewed it absentmindedly, and Ginny sighed at the sight of it. 

Well into his late twenties, Blaise still managed to maintain a graceful exuberance. That, coupled with his humorous yet respectful disposition, seemed to turn Ginny’s violent disdain for reporters into something a bit more manageable— perhaps curiosity, or appreciation, or at least, a curious appreciation for the one reporter who seemed to actually know things about reporting. 

Zabini glanced up at the end of the exchange between the other journalist and Coach Tramerelle, catching Ginny staring at him. A wide smile spread across his face, and he raised a brow before lifting his hand in the air to signal another question.    


Someone on the other side of the room groaned when the liaison called on Zabini, but Ginny couldn’t help her silly grin as he stood up. “Blaise Zabini—” 

“Yes, we know,” Gin interrupted. She smirked, “Who’s it for this time, the  _ Quibbler _ ?” 

Zabini chuckled and suddenly Ginny felt a bit warmer than she’d been before. He glanced down at his press badges and shuffled through them before pulling one up and examining it. “No, actually,  _ Cauldrons and Concoctions _ ! Now, Miss Weasley, as most athletes do, I’m sure you have quite a rigorous and strict diet to maintain your great endurance and amazing skill. Tell me,  for our readers, what is your cheat food?” He raised a brow. “Your biggest indulgence?”

Was he—was he flirting with her? Suddenly, she was acutely aware of how warm the room was and how likely it was that a flush was spreading across her face with every moment she held Zabini’s gaze. “Yeah, I eat things,” she managed to say. Get a grip, Ginevra! “—spicy things!” she added to sound less vague. 

Gathering her thoughts, she stared up at the ceiling. “When I feel like I need a cheat day, I like to indulge in something rich, creamy, erotic—” she froze. “—Exotic, I mean. Like, a good pasta carbonara?” She winced, what a bloody exotic dish that was. She rolled her eyes. “I mean, my real cheat day is a few pints and a cottage pie down at the Leaky.” 

“Mmm,” Zabini nodded and sat down. His eyes never left Ginny’s face, and that was exactly why she felt as inarticulate as a flobberworm. Whatever he would likely write in  _ that _ article would surely make her skin crawl. 

“Ah, yes, Brynn Shacklebolt,  _ Witch Weekly _ ,” the liaison said.  

Relieved to focus on something else, Ginny turned to the familiar reporter. Something asinine was coming, and for the first time in her career, she was looking forward to it. 

The reporter smiled. “Now that the season is over, you’ve won the Quaffle d’Or and secured all your sponsorship for next year, will you be celebrating with anyone special?” 

Ding! Ding! Ding! There it was! Ginny had been waiting for the significant other question. Now that she wasn’t dating Savior Harry Potter, or more recently, the Arrows’ Seeker, Hiram Hildengard, the vultures were always swirling and waiting for a morsel of relationship gossip. Ginny smiled and nodded her head. “I’ve got some big plans,” she started. “A big dinner for two, fancy wine, maybe something playing on the wireless.  Our favorite meal prepared by a culinary genius Flooed in from France.” 

Brynn Shacklebolt was practically drooling. “And who might the lucky fellow be?” 

“Not a man!” Ginny exclaimed. A few around the room collectively gasped. “My mum,” she finally said, smirking. “I’m gonna celebrate with my biggest fan.” 

-/-

In the weeks that followed the press conference, Ginny dodged quite a few “reporters” and paps as she made her way around the country visiting old friends. From Diagon Alley to the greenhouses at Hogwarts, she couldn’t escape the damned articles Blaise Zabini had written about her. 

It wasn’t that they were bad; it was the opposite. For once someone had written realistic spotlights and humanizing thinkpieces. Zabini’s  _ Prophet _ editorial feature on the Goblin minimum wage mentioned her and a few other high profile athletes, calling them “high paid earners who worked their way to the top, but managed to make room for compassion, even with a lifestyle we masses at home can only dream about. If they can value and respect the Goblins, then so should we.” 

Even worse was the mention in  _ Cauldrons and Concoctions,  _ the hip, young food newsletter started by some Hufflepuffs a few years older than Ginny. “It’s always fun to try new and exotic things,” Zabini wrote in a short blurb at the bottom of a taste test of mer-fin-chovie tartlets. “But sometimes the best feeling in the world is walking into a familiar pub, having a pint, and sinking your teeth into the comforting warmth of a cottage pie. Just ask Quaffle d’Or winner, Ginevra Weasley! Her cheat day is a trip to Diagon Alley’s Leaky Cauldron for exactly that—a slice of cottage pie and pint of McTully’s finest.” Now restaurants across the country were naming their cottage pies after her. 

It followed her everywhere. When she’d dropped in on Seamus and Dean for an afternoon tea, Seamus insisted she take home his family’s famous shepherd’s pie. 

“You’ll not touch the mush at the Leaky after you try this’n,” he’d said. 

Ginny accepted the charmed Stasis Container and promptly changed the subject, inviting them out for a fun game of Quidditch in the days before the new season started. 

Ginny thought the dust had finally settled when she met with Ron and the head coach of the Marshalbog Matligs to prepare for the first game of the season. August was upon them, and the team had been practicing for weeks. On game day, Ginny apparated to the community pitch and met Ron at the training shed. 

“I can’t believe it,” Ron said as Ginny walked up. 

“Is this a dig at my tardiness? Because I’ll have you know—” 

“No,” he interrupted. He pointed to the open field. Ginny turned and saw the dozens of spectators arriving and setting up tents and chairs, enjoying the sunshine and sporting the Matligs’ black and blue team colors. “Blimey, those can’t all be parents?” 

Ginny knew for a fact that they weren’t. Most of the kids’ parents worked and missed a lot of their games. “This is because of that article,” she realised aloud. The editorial in  _ Standard Magical Family Quarterly _ hadn’t been good—it had been amazing. Zabini talked about teaching the wizarding youth the merits of fair play and praised the new set of guidelines for tearing down the barriers between class and blood purity from the beautiful game. 

Ron finished grabbing the field markers and the Quidditch trunk. “We got almost eight hundred Galleons in donations since Zabini wrote that.” 

She stood there frozen for minutes as Ron’s words finally hit her. By the time she made it to the sideline, the kids were warming up as the spectators cheered them on. With a slowed Snitch, the game ran almost an hour, yet Ginny wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen a Quidditch game so full of pure euphoria. The crowd fueled the kids, pushing them to perform as best they could, with supportive eyes watching and hearts yearning for their success. In the end, the Matligs won. Ginny almost cried as she took in their smiling faces. 

“I’m not coming to another game for a while,” she whispered to Ron. She turned slightly to wipe a bit of moisture from her eye. She wasn’t crying, okay. 

“What?” He stared at her, shocked and a bit disappointed.

“They’re so happy, just look at them,” Ginny explained. “I don’t need to be here. It takes away from their experience.” 

  
Ron smiled. “You’re just a big sap, Gin. Come here.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they took the game equipment back to the shed. She still couldn’t believe a few sentences at a press conference had raised nearly a thousand Galleons for the team. A thousand menus with “Ginevra’s Pie” on them was definitely worth it, if it meant more days like the one she’d just witnessed. 

-/-

It was the middle of August, and Ginny was going to strangle someone. 

“These are not my size,” she frowned at the team attendant. The man had brought her the team’s new uniforms for the kit release, and the trousers were two sizes too big.

“I think it’s just the new style,” the man replied.    


“Oh really?” Ginny nodded. “So the new style is me doing a Merovingian Dive and ending it with my arse hanging out for the world to see? Lovely.” 

The attendant’s eyes bulged. Gulping, he felt around the clothing rack and pulled out a belt. 

Coach Tramerelle leaned in between them and grabbed the belt. “This will do for now, thank you Douglas.” 

“Yes, thank you, Douglas!” Ginny mimicked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“It’s not his fault we don’t have your size yet,” Coach said. 

Ginny sighed. “But it’s your fault I’m here in the first place.”

Coach smiled. “Suck it up, you’re a two-time Quaffle d’Or winner. They’ll want to take your picture next to the concession stand later, too.” 

“Let’s get this over with,” she said and grabbed the belt. 

There were no issues at the photoshoot, despite the bagginess of her uniform. The issues arose, however, when the PR staff shuffled the team models into the press room for a few questions. The problem started the moment Ginny’s eyes fell on Martin Farros. 

“Phew,” she heard him say as the team took their seats. “Weasley got her pants extra large this season for when all those cottage pies start catching up to her.” 

“That’s it,” Ginny shouted, grabbing her wand and flinging herself up and off the platform. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back before she could tear Farros to shreds. “Let me go! Let me at him!” 

Once they exited the room, the grip on her loosened. She turned to see Blaise Zabini standing tall next to her. The rush from her spiked adrenaline suddenly switched to a different feeling entirely. And there was that curious appreciation again. “Zabini.”

He smiled. “You fly through the air even without a broom.” 

Ginny calmed her breathing and tried to smile. “I’m a witch, aren’t I?” She gazed back at Zabini, taking him in. He was in much more casual robes than he was for the previous press conference, and to her disappointment, only had one press pass around his neck. She raised her hand and pointed to his chest, fingers inches from touching it. “What happened to all your employers?” 

He looked down and grinned. “No one knew you were going to be here today, so the banned reporters didn’t think they’d need a proxy. Plus, I’m not really desperate for as many side hustles now that the  _ Prophet’s _ started taking me seriously.” 

“Your editorials have been bloody brilliant,” Ginny said before she could stop herself. 

But it was true. After the first one where he’d mentioned her, he’d written several amazing pieces on a number of tough, often unaddressed issues. 

“Your most recent one on the degradation of the Ravenclaw legacy, about how we failed once power started outweighing knowledge just really—I don’t know—” She felt flustered. “It took me for a ride.” 

Zabini smiled, his eyes sparkling. “That was something I’d been working on since before—” He stopped and then looked away. 

Gin watched his facade slowly dissolve, the confident, charming journalist replaced by a timid, nervous man now biting his lip and shying away. She thought about his words and filled in the words he’d left out:  _ before the war.  _ “Did you start during our time at Hogwarts?” she offered. 

He blinked and looked back her. “Yeah, it was one of my first real research projects,” he explained, shaking his head. “I thought I could change the world with it.” 

“You are changing the world,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. As he stared back at her, Ginny thought she must’ve been blind before that moment to miss how deep and beautiful his eyes were. Her heart pounded with nerves, but she pushed through, deciding she just had to know more about his projects, about his research, about him. “Why don’t I let you tell me all about it over a slice of cottage pie at the Leaky?” 

Grinning, he asked, “Is this your cheat day, then?” 

“No, Blaise,” Ginny said. “But I’ll make an exception for someone special.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how this happened! I'm aboard this ship now. Officially. 
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome <3


End file.
